Nicole Harlow grenbisous

The great red dragon from the northgold it smelled, wealth that was feltdwarves of Lonely Mountainsought their riches, and they fleddesolation of great beastnestled deep withinthen one day, there came a knockKing came back, Thrain’s son reclaimhobbit feet swiftly withinsneaking, quietly, seekingArkenstone hidhis breath unfurled, wants to knowdoes Bilbo want to stealFriend or foe?fire released, licking stonesbeating back, hairy toed herofriends escapeout through mountainside, serpent eruptsLaketown, undefendedone man races upBard the Bowmanblack arrow through and through

Across the rolling hills, our Middle-Earth,through the misty mountaintops, the lowly swamps;the dancing and the music shires.Quiet the darkening skies from reaches far,black riders approach, the ring they seek.Four little hobbits, on a journey farthrough the Woody End, to Rivendell.Saved by the elves, the group now nine,far they travel, temptations great;the party has splitthe two cross the lands to the fiery hill.The tower with the eye, seeking, looking, searchingrises above them all.Another on a field drawing her sword, plunges it deep.The seven below, now, lament their loss,the ring is gone, the precious, the power.

she will forgiveher temptations of theseher thoughts of wildher dreams and–dreams of power wanderingin the forest, the throes of criesimages of confusionsin the pools ofthe waters; apower that subsides, wastedwhat is old, now her youth

My round green door, it’s perfect brass knockerThe musty floorboards beneath my feet;Creaking under the weightIt’s been a long time since I’ve been back to Bag-EndMy perfect little hole, my homeThe road, you see, is unendingIt was not long after Bilbo left that I found myselfI found myself at the edge of the ShirePack in my hand, my pockets stuffed with Lembas breadI was not a very important hobbitNot like Biblo Baggins of Bag-EndI wanted my own adventureAnd there I stoodI’d miss the warm fires, the pints and the dancingI’d miss all the the tales and singingI could not bear to miss it allOn my heel I’d turnI’d wait for Biblo’s tales, his adventuresFor he’d return and I wouldn’t have to miss anything at all.